I got this new hand soap, called “Frosted Coconut Snowball.”
It's the dreamiest scent ever.

When I’d unpacked (from Spring break) and had everything in place,
I dragged Andy and Leong into my bathroom. Wash your hands,” I suggested, holding up the soap dispenser and turning on the tap.

“Ok," Leong said, offering her upturned hands for soaping.
“Sure,” Andy said, assenting with his hands as well.

I pumped out a generous, foaming squirt for each of them.
Leong held the foam up to smell. “Oh, my GOD,” She moaned, “is this edible?
I shook my head no.

Andy sampled his as well, “Nice!” he agreed. Which is volumes from a guy.

“I fell in love with it.” I declared, adding, “You know, I never used to wash my hands before - now, it’s practically a habit.”
Andy chuckled.

“Good to know,” Leong said, before she began slowly inhaling the fragrance off her now-dry hands.

I want to speak to you so badly
but I’m just going to sit here hoping
you’ll start the conversation.

Boys are so dense!

I even send an obvious signal:
I didn't pull out my phone and get all busy
the moment we were alone.

Duh.

It was suggested that we wear something comfortable (especially shoes) and that we bring a cover. I wore a black one-shoulder bow-tied satin mini dress and G Ballet Flats and I was able to fold a sheer shirt into my tiny purse (for a later cover).

The stretch limo pulled into our driveway.
“Is it prom night already?” my brother Brice snarked.
“Be careful,” my mom said sternly, pulling my short dress down a bit. “you have your phone?”
I rolled my eyes, produced my phone and she made sure “Find my” was working.
“You’re staying at Bili’s (my BFF), ya?”, she confirmed. “You three stick TOGETHER.”, she adds.
“Yes mam.” we answer, with nods all around.

As Bili, Kim (my 2 BFFs) and I excitedly settled in, the boat-like car moved smoothly off into the night. There were ten of us - five guys and five girls - but no set “dates”.

Everett (nick-named “Ev”), all business at the moment, made sure he had all of our cell phone numbers - which he sent back to us as a custom contact list called “Dance Monkeys”, HA! Then he pushed a button or two, the interior lights dimmed, background music filled the air, a partition lowered and a bar appeared. The club, in Atlanta, was an hour away.

The cover charge for the Havana club VIP lounge is $500 a person (but you get a “free” drink). Everett waved, said, “Eddie!” and two Dwayne Johnson clones parted like a bank vault door. We passed through an airlock-like foyer where “Ev’s” polite apple-pay tap allowed the ten of us to enter the industrial looking, VIP lounge area.

A pretty girl dressed in black leather named Holly was our “steward” for the night - Everett, our guide to pleasure, passed her our cell number list. A second later we all received the message, “Hi!, I’m Holly - text me if you need anything.”

We passed through one last set of black glass doors and I practically flinched as the night exploded into shards of light, ear grinding bass riffs and pure, laser-lit decadence. “Holy crap,” I said - I couldn’t hear myself so I knew no one else could either - my arms prickled - it felt like the room was 45 degrees.

We were led through an ocean of writhing people below a live, aerial, Cirque du Solei like ballet display. Video played on every inch of wall space - the song “Get out of my head” played like a jet engine - the video was skin on every surface - the effect was stunning and somewhat disorienting.

Eventually, we came to a private “cabana” where we settled in.
Someone pulled my arm and I was out on the dance floor. ****, THIS is what I’d been missing - FUN.

Every few songs I was able to get back to the table and gulp whatever drink was at my seat but then someone pulled my arm and again, I was out on the dance floor. The club seemed to morph with every video - the crowd roared each time a favorite cut, like “Wasted love” began.

I was offered, more than once, a triangular pill with an “X” on it - we (Bili, Kim and I) were pretty sure it was ecstasy. We passed on it. However, it seemed a tray of shooters arrived at our cabana every 5 minutes.

There were half-assed horderves, but I hadn’t really eaten and after about 90 minutes of shooters and dancing I was starting to spin. Then, like magic or an unconscious prayer, the field of dancers parted for - a pizza delivery!!

Ok, now, in my animal-like hunger, I’m thinking maybe Everett is a genius. People at other  cabanas point and eye us with naked envy. No one else thought of this. I greedily, unladylikely help myself to a life-saving slice of cheesy heaven and groan with pleasure at each new bite.

I’m greedy for more than pizza.

Dissolve your genuine self
hide your natural traits
deny your heritage
forsake social interests
and embrace the darker side of love.

(Senryu-ous story)

I can’t figure out
why everything doesn’t
happen like I want.

I brush my teeth and
floss regularly, I wash
my roommates dishes,

I am generous,
I don’t run in the hallways,
I do my homework.

I support pizza
places, Amazon - I spur
the economy

semi-sleepless night
no worries, but tossing with
no sleep - what’s with that?

My health app says I
slept three hours, four minutes.
I’m low on toothpaste.

five-thirty AM
Lisa and I ran four miles
on the gym treadmills

Banana/ peanut
butter/ cacao/ oat milk/ chia
seed breakfast smoothie.

I've been in love with
styling dresses, layered
over flared jean pants.

My first look was a
tulle dress over sequined jeans
and tan kitten heels.

The winter hook-up
scene is in full swing - not for
me, I’m like second base

I just lay around,
in sad, unfettered, boredom
- a crying shoulder

for others, I’m not
a skanky *****, like [censored]
- try penicillin - ßℹℸçⒽ

Since, as you can see,
I am, for all intents and
purposes - perfect.

I can’t figure out
why everything doesn’t
happen like I want.

White is for rice and brides - ready to commit.
White’s for ghosts and clouds or even carnations
but it should never, ever, be used for privilege
or worse yet, as poetic inspiration.

I’ve been waiting for the urge to write
while facing an ugly screen of white.
Waiting for the vowels to fall into place,
for words to congeal and finally displace
the awful, foreboding, blank white space.

Learning is our struggle, our crown of thorns.
The more we study and prepare for fall,
the more excited I get to reenter those halls.
34 days until classes start. For fall weather,
and the bee hum of crowded life in the dorms.

My roommates and I are like a single, nameless thing
- an emolument that happens to have 6 heads.
We’ve beaten the freshman “imposter syndrome,”
and we’re ready to bring sophomore year home -
together - no muss, no fuss - I love that for us.

Hey someone, in charge, I’m talking to you
across a vast ocean of errors numbered 502.

Please, put a quarter in the little slot that dispenses the feed,
so, the little gray squirrel gets what he needs,
to spin the little aluminum wheel that generates
the Susie-Bake oven light which facilitates
the solar cells powering the 1984 Tandy desktop,
that’s the Hello Poetry server - it’s ground to a stop.

We love that squirrel, and if we sound cloying,
it’s because we find the constant 502 errors annoying.

On a cool spring morning, by a clear mountain stream, an enchantress sat skywriting.

Her arms danced at awkward, inhuman angles and as they did, her bracelets jangled a melody which the birds took up in chorus.

The soundtrack was magic. Insects buzzed in beat, animals froze mid-forage, and the wind died, lest moving clouds corrupt her work.

The mask-wearing knight, a killer for the king, was dressed in black. Even the buck knife, loosely gripped in his right hand, was painted black. His boots were cloth wrapped and his movements were as smooth as smoke. He was noiseless death itself.

As he drew closer, the birds suddenly stopped chirping. "Go home boy, " the enchantress whispered. The knight blinked in disbelief and froze but the enchantress did not look around.

She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.

The knight’s mind went from deadly certain to vague. Why was he here? He sheathed his knife, lowered his mask and wiped his lips. What had he been doing?

Still not looking his way, the minx motioned to the clear, babbling stream, "Come, drink," she said. He drew beside her and with a quick glance, as he sipped water from cupped hands, he saw that she was young and beautiful.

She’d never looked at him, but she knew him in a rarefied, magical way - as if he were her brother, and she felt the sting of his long sorrow, that his wife was barren.

"Your love will bear you two sons if you're home and can bed her before dark," she said softly.

The knight stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, nodded at her, and ran for his horse.

The enchantress smiled to herself and resumed her unearthly work. The sound of horse and rider quickly faded as the birds resumed their spell-song.

Two strapping young men they would be.

We sat beneath a night sky of graduated charcoals, blacks and interstellar blues. Fall’s begun its indispensable work, banishing the harsh sun, the creepy lanternflies and hot summer nights.

The stars seemed hesitant tonight, like they feared the sun might change its mind, reverse its course and run them back off - except one, which Peter says is Jupiter (and therefore not a star at all).

We were (Peter, Sunny, Anna and I), studying, in our fold-up lounge chairs and reading by little kindle lights clipped on our books. Leong’s there too - supposedly studying - but in reality, she was waiting for her date.

Leong and Sile have been flirting since last year and tonight’s their first, official date. Leong’s never been on a western date before or ever been alone with a boy in a car. She’s only seen romance in movies or from afar, like an astronomer viewing a distant moon through a telescope.

Her outfit, though casual, was coalesced from six wardrobes and no king or questing knight has ever been dressed more carefully or with greater ceremony. She even positioned her chair at a carefully chosen angle, to show her, initially, in her best light - “Zhù ni hao yùn!” She insisted (It’s good luck).

She’s a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing woman with a razor-thin veneer of amorous confidence. I know my nerves playup when I’m uncertain about things, but Leong’s playing it off, acting casual.. ish.

Finally, with an almost physical jolt, she saw him enter the quad. As he approached, his every aspect was scrutinized by vigilant, overprotective roommates. The air was filled with the whispered buzz of shared analysis.

Soon they were walking off together and chuckling at something we couldn’t hear. It’s funny, I’ve never felt so much like a parent.

(inspired by "Gifts of the Most High" by G Alan Johnson.)

The crows know me, and I, in their untamed glares,
and wild, accepting, onyx eyes find a solace.

No need for ID, for they’ve been watching me,
my face, yet unetched by time and life's own artistry,
is a passport for their uncivilized and predatory attention.

The corvid and I are kindred in many ways.
We've all scavenged for fortune's scraps,
shared the sting of bitter winter snaps,
and feasted on the meager leavings of the day.

In this dark pact, of watcher and watched,
a silent truth is proclaimed, that all that’s done
beneath the sun, is seen by dark, intuitive,
discerning, if not caring or humanly wise eyes.

The carrion crows know me,
and those feathered sentinels of air, mark
my coming with raucous, heralding cries.

They gather, black against the sun-kissed sky,
in councils held upon the wind's swift motions,
like children, they argue - observing still - as they play.

They causa no fear, but someday I’ll disappear,
unraveled, bit by bit, not by malice from on high,
but by beaks and claws, to caws they mantric-like cry.

Perhaps death really does have an ebonite beauty
and, like angels, his servants have wings, and pick us apart
when our time is through - and those sharp bills come due.

It didn’t work out. sigh
What were the odds? Statistics...
- love isn’t baseball.

Where do regrets start?
Should I regret the sunset
- or mourn holding hands?

Or shame desire?
Baseball.. Well, at least he
didn't get to first base. =]

During finals week, I’d spent days on various reports and papers, scribbling in the margins of notes and books, checking facts, revising flashcards and prepping with friends.
I’ve an unshakable faith in plodding persistence.
We were tested and sent packing.

Today, I’m in Geneva, with Peter (my bf). He works for CERN. I’m on vacation - but he has to work sigh. Peter apartments with a roommate, so, oh-****, we had to make alternate arrangements.
We’re ensconced at the fabulous Hotel de la Paix. It’s my treat, I’ve been dorm-roomed for months, and Vive la différence!

The hallways are hushed here, as if moss-covered - noises fade quickly after use. The purposeful quiet feels physical, like a cotton covered fairytale hug after noisy dorm life - where doors slam and people yell at 3am.

Freshly cut flowers accent with color, and infuse the suite with scents that calm and relax like subconscious aromatherapy. This is the land of chocolate, and little treats are stashed everywhere to surprise and delight.

I’m a cryophile - from the Greek "kryos" (cold) and "philos" (lover) - I like my environment cold. In the dead of New Haven winter, when it’s 20°f, I sleep with my dorm room windows open and I seldom use more than a sheet for cover. When Peter would sleepover, he’d try and close the windows, “GEE-zus,” he’d say.
“Don’t be a big baby,” I’d suggested, generously cracking them back open again, “I’ll keep you warm.”

That being said, have you ever slept under freshly starch-pressed egyptian-cotton sheets?’
The cotton is orchid petal light and soft - the starch-pressing means the top sheet stands-off your skin, only barely resting on you, as needed - like an angel's kiss.
At college, I handle the menial chores of daily existence, like laundry service, and there are no freshly pressed sheets.

Hmm.. ok, something poetic-ish

Our experiences are stacked,
laid and layered like bricks.
We’re making something
but the form isn’t clear.
Is it solid and cohesive
- will it last - who knows?

I’d been Facetimimg with Lisa (she’ll join us next Friday), while Peter looked through some work papers. Since he isn’t on vacation, he wants to finish something before we leave for Paris tomorrow, where we’ll meet my parents for mothers-day.

As I came into the bedroom, Peter, propped up on the bed, said, “You ladies were talking for a while.” And still not looking up from his papers, he added, “How’s Lisa?”

I thought I’d made a firm decision - but now I was afraid.  
Still, after a moment - I just blurted it out, saying, “I told her I love you.”
I’d said it in a rush - my pounding heart sounded like thunder.

He looked up. “You did?” He asked, radiating an irritating amount of pleasure.
As I’d said it, I felt a relief that turned into a wave of anxiety verging on nausea.
He still had an open mouthed expression of success and pure joy, so I said, “Shut up.”

“Say it again,” he asked, laying down his papers and taking off his reading glasses, “what you said to her.”
For some reason, I felt a sudden hopelessness. “Not now,” I said, turning away.

“Why,” he asked, I could hear the smile in his voice of insistence.
“Because.. reasons.” I explained, then I went into the bathroom and turned on the water.
“Tell me!” He pleaded from the other room.
I felt flushed, and didn’t want to talk, so I squeezed-out too much toothpaste and started to brush my teeth.
“I can’t heah muuf,” I said, purposefully inaudible through a mouth full of suds.
“Anais,” he called, but I closed the bathroom door and leaned back against it.
I suddenly wanted to go home.. or back in time.

Later, I’d calmed down. Was my declaration really a secret - or common knowledge available to the most casual observer?
We’d had dinner room-serviced (Nordic-fusion cuisine from the Fiskebar) but I still felt a little off and moody. We were settled on an uncomfortable, Ikea-like, off-white couch and we’d queued-up ‘Parks and Rec,’ when I had a terrible thought.

“You must think I’m easy,” I voiced it, looking down, my hair hiding my face from him, “the way school ends and I just flee into our arms.”
“You.. EASY?” He said with a chuckle, “NNNOO,” he added snarkily.

I turned on him sharply, tucking my hair back behind my ears for verbal combat. “I feel like I’m being very vulnerable with you and you’re just laughing,” I pronounced.

“ALL right,” he said softly, as he turned and wrapped his arms gently around me, “don’t get yourself all wound-up - or I won’t get a chance to say ‘I love you,’ back.”
.
.
songs for this:
Good Life by Sammy Rae & The Friends
​​Swingin Party by The Replacements
Redwood Tree by Jamie Drake
All My Girls Like To Fight by Hope Tala

You "adults," you exasperate me
with your evasions and delays.
You're going to have to change
some of the ways that you behave.
You aren't doing your homework,
you haven't cleaned the planet,
You aren't standing up to bullies,
you haven't been sharing your things,
and you're even playing with guns.
And you're pretending everything's ok.
You were taught better than this.
Sorry, but.. You're all grounded people.
And hand over those phones!

I’ve slept in church
that must be when
I missed the answers.

“When will Christ return?”
I asked, waving my phone,
“I have this handy calendar app.”

"My child," he said, putting a
fatherly hand on my shoulder.
I wiped it off, like a spider web.

I’ll never get to heaven,
I lack the plasticine
malleability of belief.

Remember Christmas shopping?
I mean in stores full of shoppers
- there was music in the air and
some shops had free hot-chocolate
while others offered hot cinnamon
apple-cider and ginger-reindeer cookies

Parents would have to wait outside stores
because the whole expedition was surreptitious
- you shielded your gift bags from prying eyes.
Siblings would offer to help you carry your loot
- as if any respectable kid would fall for THAT.

School choirs competed for applause, caroling in food courts.
A line of excited children would spark my older brother,
Brice, to smirk and tease, “Are you sitting on Santa’s lap this year?”

There was a dazzling neon candy-cane roller-coaster
on the roof of Macy’s called “the pink pig” that we’d
squeeze into - even though it was made for little kids.

I was always in charge of checking the calendar so we’d remember
when my sister would be flying home for college break.

Have a careful Christmas - holly jolly as it can be.
Make memories that will last forever - like favorite songs.

I'm not an 'ingénue' anymore - that’s been vitiated.
I'm not innocent, pure, naive or vulnerable -
which are technically, 'ingénue' requirements
(I don’t make the rules).

That being said, if no one has an objection,
in terms of narrative trajectory, I'd like to be
considered a 'fémme fatale' until further notice.
.
.
Songs for this:
HEATED by Beyoncé
Hysterical Us by Magdalena Bay

11am 08.12

I'm like a Vulcan when you aren't around - logical, distant, evaluating you like a product with my friends. The consumer with a lifetime of buying.

But near you I’m a prisoner of some consciousness independent of thought, like a fever or the dreamer, with the merest semblance of control.

You are light and loose, hair like Spanish moss and skin like cedar resin, all laughter and agonizing beauty. The way you lean across the table I only think of kissing you.

I'm sure at times it must show, like a red stain on a white dress or some inconvenient *******..

You have some license on me, a key to a place in me I keep hidden and close, you fit some interior template of desire.

What good is freedom if I can't tell you!!?

Oh, the ragged vagaries of loves games. 1000 emotions and I am deserted to silence by some rule of thumb - by a faltering consumer confidence or some feeling of inward nakedness - when all I want in the world is an open kiss or to give you an intimate scented something...

Thou hast my love and I desire thine.
Dost thou know or knowing, care?
I keep the nymph's lonely station.

But my impatience grows savage.

If thou carest not, my love,
the stars will keep their motion,
flowers will still need water,
I will learn stillness,
and the feeling will rust.

(A bit of fun for Thomas W. Case - I think he lives in Iowa)

Hawkeye pride burns bright in Iowa City,
the place where Tennessee Williams learned to curse.

Iowa City hosts the 4th of July, Iowa speedway race, unique perhaps
because the cars have to stay behind a tractor for the first 199 laps.

How polite are the people in Iowa City? I saw a news report where a man was mugged,
traumatic? Sure, but the man still remembered to say “Thank you” before the perp bugged.

There are over twenty-six churches here, people can be a bit pious and obnoxiously reflective.
There’s a Hawkeye infestation in Iowa City because of the university, classified as ‘moderately selective.’

Geographically, Iowa’s where the rolling plains meet a limestone rise.(1)
Did I mention that the bars close at 2am? A travesty in any serious drinker’s eyes.

Some noted authors came from Iowa City, the locals are proud of that and own it.
Most were playwrights and novelists, luckily, few of them turned out to be  poets.

(1) whatever that is

Sometimes I’ll rouse, in darkest night, to a twilit form, bending over me, so closely we’re sharing the same still air. I never startle, I somehow know, even before I’m completely awake, that it’s not mortal.

This malevolent force stalks time worn halls like disease. It thrives on inertia and stress, it drinks in fatigue like a vampire devours blood and slowly chews on fragile-hopes until they’re desiccated and smell like rotten flesh.

This death like thing waits for each of us, in tedium, as danger hides in shadow - growling with sullen impatience to smother us.

It’s name is failure. Sometimes, I’m so afraid.

Reproduction is oocyting.
With beingness what it is.
From eggs we all develop
as does every animal that lives.

500 cardinal gambles tendered
for congress milt to meet, before
fecund moons by periods ended.

From family we are decended
but from eggs we all are rendered.



*** breaking it down ***

It’s about eggs. All amminals come from eggs, humans are animals

An oocyte is the original cell that divides to form an **** - I made it “oocyting” a play on exciting - reprodiction is exciting.

500 - a female baby is born with 500 eggs (all she will ever have)
cardinal = a number  
gambles = a chance to reproduce.  
tendered = given (in a womans life)
congress = ****** *******.  
milt = *****
fecund = fertile.  
moons (monthly)
period = when the current unfertalized egg is disposed of.
taa daaa!

Lisa and I wrap and rap for Christmas.
Can you imagine the two of us doing that?

We’ve got Christmas playlists going
Christmas scented candles glowing,
a tinctured but milky hot-chocolate flowing.

“Stir the marshmallows with the candy canes,”
Lisa says, like that’s something she had to explain.

We’re humming, singing and laughing,
and dancing because we’re happy.

We’re dashing to finish our wrapping,
we can’t have our suitemates catching
us executing the plans we’re hatching
to surprise them with gifts, enchanting.

The paper’s exotic, delicate and glittery
bought at Boyars Gifts, in New York City.
Why do the scissors keep getting lost?
Getting low on scotch-tape - we’ve used a lot.

We’ll be putting them, sneakily, under the tree
where they’ll add glamor and tease to our festivities.

I love the lights of the season - I love giving gifts.
For me, playing Santa is as good as it gets.
.
.
(BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: tinctured: mixed with alcohol)

Be reborn, departed Shakespeare
for now is truly the time to quench
your perpetual attraction to madness.

Threatened by the cruel hounds
of distemper and heated atmospheres,
our broken trusts and unhealthy emotions
set a luxurious bed for extravagant madness.

Be freed from truth, beloved bard
and unbound by complex thought
- relish in weakening America’s
obsessional social dysfunction.

(a story in senryu stanzas)

I get migraines.
- lucky me - glare can set me
off within seconds.

I always have a
pair of dark, polarized shades
with me - it’s a quirk.

When I was fourteen,
we lived in Shenzhen, China
very near Macau.

Macau, China, the
“Las Vegas” of Asia, is
the home of glare.

The Ritz-Carlton, has
a glittering galaxy
of bright chandeliers.

Those chandeliers move,
their silhouettes change shape - just
stab me with a spork.

Did I mention the
Mirrors? Every wall served to
magnify the light.

“You look awful,” my
mom said - our two week booking
became ten minutes.

“I just need sunnies,
those would work,” then I gasped
“I’ll look glamorous!”

We changed hotels, but
what a small world - my roommate
Leong grew up there.

We could have passed in
the yè shì as teenagers
and now we're roommates.
.
.
sunnies = sunglasses (UK slang)
yè shì = night market (simplified Chinese)

I pound the pillow, curse the clock and mock injunctions to rest.

The sun finally rises and its rays slantwise fall through the curtains as I dry my hair.

A meal, like a forced dose, we soak ourselves in wasted, nervous time.

Finally! We arrive at the competition...

Tension is here and tireless pressure.

The players waiting stiff as straw, tongues playing over dry lips.

Teachers and coaches unapologetic in their pallor.

Music drifts behind us and occasionally gasps as imperfections play like daring circus tricks.

The sparkling prodigy returns disappointed, grimace of a smile, stricken, he stares away as we search for words, oh! clumsy, unrepairable prince!

Suddenly, its time and I wonder why we are hurrying, feeling weak, momentarily frightened to go there.

On this stage in this great, hushed hall, enormity suddenly dawns with mass enough to crush me.

At last I sit before this odd Steinway music machine - my dearest mechanical friend.

A tremble resisted - the reward of mortal afternoons - endless practices fruit.

Eyes closed I prepare my best self - pushing all fear, all doubt, to the margins - and begin.

I hope, to recreate, one note at a time, Chopin's ancient impact - with hands flying, like tethered birds, I hammer out his timeless melody explosions, his streams of crazily exact math exam fiery semiquaver motions.. then, almost suddenly, I'm done.

I stand, joyously, nearly crying.. The world hasn't ended.

A tempest night sky presses, my lattice windows shake,
as if someone’s being thrown against them, or worse yet,
a yeti's breaking in.  They lock with little levers that seem far
too flimsy to keep out the prying fingers of turbulence.

We watched a man plodding outside - obviously a student from Alaska. He was talking on his phone, his breath a continuous, cold white cloud. He slipped, careering drunkenly but managed to stay upright by assuming a surfer-like crouch.
“Where do you think HE’s going?” Lisa wondered.

Forget fall’s polite, amuse-bouche of chill, we’ve been smacked,
full frontally assaulted by the gigantic, cold-fist of winter. “Go on,”
I said, to the weather gods last fall, like an unlucky gambler on a
losing streak. “hit me!”

Now I’m searching Amazon for “flannel underwear”.

(fall break starts today (Yea!) so, a story)

Lisa, a freshman in our residential hall sister-suite, and I have become fast friends over the last couple of weeks. Before we began hanging out I penned a piece about her that she thought was hilarious. Last Friday night Lisa and I were supposed to meet people at “the buttery” (a café in the dorm basement) for another Friday night of pandemic-safe fun.

As she readied, I regarded myself in her full-length mirror. She came up behind me, Mephistopheles to my Faustus, whispering, “You’re quite pretty,” while rearranging my hair into different styles. “But you need to cut your hair.” She began to drape me in scarves. “I have a coiffeur, in New York (city), we could go there one weekend and stay with my parents.”

She turned solemn, “How old are you?” she asked. “18,” I answered. “Perfect, you don’t want to look like a schoolgirl - or a milkmaid.” She grinned and murmured conspiratorially, “You could be wickedly stylish.” And like that, it was decided - we’ll go on fall break together.

I want more than a change in hairstyle though, I want to learn her secret. It’s hard to describe - but there‘s a kind of density, an unidentified importance to her femaleness that I envy. Is it something I can learn, something she could teach or that I could osmose? I can’t help but wonder. I even told her as much. She looked at me, blank-faced, and then made a loud **** sound with her lips. It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

With DJ Cummberbund playing in the background, she began humming and as we looked in the mirror she started dancing. “Can you do the whole shack shimmy? It’s easy.” Of course, it isn’t and soon we collapsed in laughter on the charmeuse eiderdown quilt of her bed.

Her room was a mess, clothes lay everywhere, satin, silk, chantilly and crêpe de chine - enchanted clothes that could turn ordinary girls into someone else - they were hung on chairs, the mirror, and littered the floor. I was admiring the fairy lights draped across her ceiling and wondering if her bed was cushier than mine when she turned serious. “This place (Yale) will get to you if you don’t have some fun,” she said, sounding very intense, I nodded.

She was suddenly bored and angry, a not-quite domesticated animal. “I wish there was somewhere to GO,” she said, “somewhere NEW,” she added contemptuously, “f--king pandemic.” I had to agree.

In a few moments though, we’d collected ourselves and set off to the buttery to see what fun there was to be had there.

The earth is twirling,
oh, God, make it stop.
If it keeps on spinning,
I think I’ll throw up.

The way Earth orbits the sun,
it's dangerous and thoughtless.
Can we just knock it off?
It's making me nauseous.

My room is a mess - it's an archaeological record of boredom.
Christmas, Christmas, come on Christmas.
It's 4 days 'til Christmas. Why don't I go to my room and do NOTHING??

The clock ticking sounds like a large horse clomping over cobble stones.
Last year there were wall-to-wall parties - so many that you had to carry a change of clothes with you.

In 2020 there's nothing to do - but I don't have to tell YOU (my reader). Except for the whole school thing. Nothing to do but study. I read, on that webber-net thing that 38% of students are failing.

Because of the pandemic - oh, not that virus monster - the boredom pandemic - the London-tower-lonely state of slow-motion distress that’s invisibly gripped us all.

Can we hold on people? The hard-won, delicious truth is that there’s hope. Vaccines - a bunch of 'em. Is it possible to let worries go this season and simply treasure our lives?

Just this month we have or had Hanukah, Kwanza, Festivus.
Hopefully, you made wild, monkey-love on December 14th - that was "International Monkey Day" - I couldn't join you - of course - but I'm just sayin.  =]

Look it up - almost every day is some kind of celebration or invent your own - if Ice Cream Day, Lemon Cupcake Day, Go Caroling Day or Crossword Puzzle Day don't do it for ya.

The important gifts, this year, are fun, attention and love.

I think I might be
addicted to exercise -
I’m a street walker  =]

I walk in the dark,
every morning - I even
have my workout gear.

I don’t go alone
- heaven forbid a 17 year old
go frikin’ walking alone.

At five am, my "to
be named later” partner is
where we assemble.

And off we go. Even
writing of this makes me want
to go "lace-’em-up."

But no, I am NOT
addicted... quivering hands
- I’m stronger than that.

It’s a beautiful day, like a hole in perpetual winter. We rode bikes around campus - everyone was out. When it’s cold I just go place to place but today reminded me that outdoors can be fun. Of course, it’s supposed to snow tomorrow night - just a few snow atoms, I think.

Lisa was laying on her back in the grass reading. She rolled over and smoothed the book flat. In the fleeting, golden moment between dusk and evening, the edges of Lisa’s gold hair looked almost green. I’m right there next to her - we’re sharing a towel-like blanket.

She takes up a pen and writes something in the margins - leaving stray thoughts like breadcrumbs. Then trades the pen for a highlighter and colors several phrases. We’re poking around the edges of our chemistry midterm. Her face has tightened in concentration. I could imagine her wearing a similar expression while taking the test.

Later, we’ll combine our little scribbles (her handwriting is awful) and highlights, class notes and charts into something collaborative and shareable. She passes me a note, like a riddle, which I read and hand back, annoyed. “That question doesn’t interest me.” I say nonchalantly.
“You mean you don’t know the answer,” she guesses correctly.
“Not yet.” I admit.

Rumor has it that Putin will attempt to salvage his reputation by saying his ill-fated invasion of Ukraine was an attempt to stop the new season of “The Kardashians.” While we can ALL embrace THAT goal, I think it’s just an excuse (politics).

I love classes - the ideas that we’re exposed to, like Agential Identities or Nominative Determinism Hypothesis - ideas, some ½ stupid, some profound but things I wouldn’t have thought of in 200 years. I constantly find myself thinking “Who THOUGHT of this?”

Leong squirms up to me at breakfast, in the cafeteria.

“May I ask..,” she said, looking around like a secret agent getting ready to make a dead-drop, “what contraceptives do you use?”

I thought this an odd question from someone who just broke up with her long-time boyfriend but, hey, I’m an open book.

“Isolation and despair,” I replied, which got me an eye roll.

“You’re never serious!” She admonishes me.

It’s both a bitter funeral for freedom
and the birth of new crime.

I’m in the residential dining hall with my suitemates Lisa and Sunny. We’re talking about sausages.

Why? Because April 30th is ‘National Sausage day.”
Someone mentioned that when I complained about the beyond-meat hot dog atrocities they serve here, in the dining hall, as if they were food.
“Can we get some real food here?” I moaned.
“These are ok,” Sunny pronounced, examining hers closely.
“That’s what we want,” I went off, “the average, the acceptable, let's build our lives around that.”
“I think they’re Canada,” Lisa said.

“That’s why there’s no ketchup (in the dining hall) - they decided it was unhealthy,” I replied bitterly (with a few expletives removed here - I’ve really fallen into some obscene verbal habits) “What are we supposed to DO?” I asked rhetorically, “Start carrying our own ketchup packets everywhere? Noone here’s over 23 - will ketchup **** us?”
“I miss the ketchup,” Sunny agreed sadly.
“Nothing’s perfect,” Lisa shrugged.

“That’s true,” I said, “I’m thinking of a specific, textural issue I have with sausages - even though I love ‘em”
“Issue!” Lisa chuckled. “Major issue,” I added nodding.
“Conflict!” Sunny updogged. “Oh, No!” Lisa laughed.
“The really good sausages, like you get on a charcuterie board? Have this little bit at the end - the tie-off?”
“The casing,” Sunny named it. “Yeah,” I agreed, “those can be hard to chew but I usually do it anyway,” I said.
“Because what can you do?” Lisa added, “Spit it out in front of everyone?” she asked rhetorically.

“I took étiquette lessons one summer, when I stayed with my Gandmère - I was seven,” I grinned, remembering. "We were at dinner one night - she has this long table that’s always full of guests - when she suddenly looked down at me and pronounced, ‘You’re just a little savage, aren’t you?’"
"7-year-old me froze, unsure how to answer THAT."

“The next morning, I began ‘L'art de vivre’ (the art of life’) lessons, with an old, brusque nun - Sister Thérèse.”
“Too funny,” Sunny snorted.
“When did you forget all that,” Lisa asked innocently.

“Anyway,” I continued, “The rule is: if you get a mouth full of gristle or something, you just spit it out - you don’t make a show of it - you don’t go with a giant ‘blaah’ or something - but you don’t swallow it either,” I finished, shivering at the thought.
“Really,” Sunny said, watching me closely for signs of deception. “Chyeah,” I assured her.
“What else you got?” Lisa asked, fishing for more tips.
“Mmm,” I hummed, considering, “Elbows on the table - good - not bad.”
“Whaaaaaat?!” Sunny practically shreeked. Lisa chortled.
“If your hands are in your lap, at least in France, everyone assumes you’re diddling yourself, or someone else,” I said, grinning.
“Now you’re just making things up,” Sunny said, making a snarky face. Lisa looked dubious.
“On God,” I said, offering a Girl scout salute.
“Sister Thérèse told you that?” Lisa smirked.
“Nuns know all about ***.” I assured her, “It’s an occupational necessity.”  
.
.
Songs for this piece:
Glamor Girl by Louie Austen
Glitter of the City by Ron Everett
Anthony Kiedis by Remi Wolf
.
.
slang…
Canada = healthier, fitter, more Canadian
chyeah = f*ck yeah.
on God = swearing to God

What stands guaranteed?
The moon's drifting away, oh
inconstant cosmos.

Gravity fights us,
taxes come due, boys will ******,
some things are certain.

What about love? We
need extended warranties
for consumer faith.

Permanent pressed
love - no crumpled hopes
- investor safety.

“Love bonds”, or "emo-
care?” No worry, we’ll find a
marketable name...

Here’s a playlist, Mr. Ex President:

'I Fought the Law' by The Clash
'Chain Gang' by The Pretenders
'Locked Up' by Akon
'My Own Prison' by Creed
'Prisoner' by The Weeknd
'Famous-in-A-Small-Town' by Miranda Lambert
'FatMan on the Run' by Paul McCartney & Wings
'Jailhouse Rock' by Elvis Presley
'Prison Grove' by Warren Zevon
‘Who’s Sorry Now’ by Connie Francis
‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ by Cher

If convicted, Trump should claim to identify as a woman

Trapped like Napoleon on Elba, cursing himself 300 straight nights.
There's no escape from MY desolate coast so I longingly wait nights.
The moon comes and goes on restless, disenchanted, chaste nights.
Will I be an old maid before the next dear and playful date night?

(a poem in Senryus)

They say that you should
never follow whisky with
beer - but my new rhyme

is - never follow
several martinis with
two more martinis

Ladies, please take my
advice, you can’t focus your
eyes in the morning

When your roommates rude
little sister runs the loud
vacuum around noon

Who gets up before
noon in the summer? It’s not
right, if you ask me.

“Mom told me to?” That’s
an excuse reminiscent
of old Nuremberg

I have feels for her
as encumbered as she is
by parental yoke.
.
.
A song for this (please play it low):
Hangovers with You by Big B & ***** Heads Rock [E]

Peter is joining us for lunch in the cafeteria. I met him on a crowded Saturday morning at a coffee shop. He’s from the flammable, paper-dry, sagebrush hills of Malibu and grew up overlooking the hazy blue pacific ocean. He says Mel Gibson’s drunken **** rant, when a cop pulled him over for a DUI, put them on the map.

Poor Peter is fashion challenged. He’s 25, too tall, and too thin. Reading glasses hang around his neck. His too loose-fitting clothes are all variations of brown, like tawny, penny and wenge. He’s wearing a battered tweed coat, brown corduroy slacks and tortilla colored mock turtleneck. He’s adorably shabby-fancy. If he fell in the dormant, straw-yellow grass, we probably couldn’t find him.

Peter has a serious aura of experience about him. His cheek bones are sharp, his hair is an explosion of uncombed black, his skin is pale - bleached - by over exposure to library lighting.

He lives in a different world - the prosaic, laissez-faire universe of research - where students are left to their own devices and expected to self-manage.

Right now, he’s being vetted by one of my roommates, Leong. His student lanyard marks him but she wants specifics if he’s going to hang around. “What’s your major?” she asks, her eyes squinting like the Chinese lie detectors they are. “I’m a doctoral student in applied physics,” he says.

I pat his knee, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I say, reassuringly.

I’m in the kitchen at Lisa’s. Her little sister Leeza enters, her pale, freckled face redder than usual. “Liza is the bossiest sister..,” Leeza says, slamming the cupboard door after grabbing a box of Fruity-Pebbles-cereal like she’s choking the life out of it.

Lisa enters from the hall, her jaw set with tension, she waves her “La Mer” makeup bag, wildly, letting its very existence, there in the kitchen, function as angry exposition. “YOU,” she practically screams and then shaking with outrage, she begins more calmly. “You can’t use someone else's makeup and ESPECIALLY not their brushes!!” She had begun under control but with each word her message grew emotionally.

“I didn’t hurt anything!” Leeza answered venomously back, giving as good as she got.

I lean with my **** against the waist high kitchen island, slowly letting myself slide down to where I’m not visible, into a sitting position on the floor, as the fight quickly escalates.

Have you ever been a guest somewhere, when there’s a sibling fight or other parents start yelling at a friend? All you can do is try and become invisible - or pretend to text on your phone like you can’t hear the turmoil.

I catch a motion out of the corner of my eye, it’s their mom, Karen, motioning me, with a side-bob of her head, into the living room. I quietly, crouchingly exit the kitchen - the fight reaching full, nuclear bloom.

I join her on a white sectional, breathing a sigh of relief. We’re far enough away from the action to feel uninvolved. I like Karen a lot. She's warm, open and always seems to be suppressing a smile when watching her girls. She’s a lawyer. “You’re officially part of the family,” she says, as she takes a sip of coffee, “they don’t fight in front of company.” I grin.

Somewhere just below the tumult, I hear a dad’s deep, male voice, “Excuse me?” he says, and the fight is instantly over. There is a moment of deafening quiet. “It’s NOTHING,” both girls say, a second later, in perfect, synchronized, bored-sounding unison.

(inspired by Mike Burch’s poem “Almost”)

We almost loved, in the sudden heat,
of ham-smacking lust for forbidden treats.
What made us stop - what got in the way?
If we’d just let go, at love’s buffet,
exchanged sweet fluids and DNA
would we still be the friends,
that we are today?

By a clear mountain stream an enchantress sat skywriting.
Her bracelets seemed to jangle a melody as her arms moved.
The wind stopped blowing lest the clouds corrupt her work.

The knight, dressed in black, wore a mask and intended damage.
His knife was clenched between his teeth, as he moved noiselessly closer - breathing shallowly for stealth.

The birds suddenly stopped chirping. “Go home boy,” the enchantress whispered.
The knight blinked and froze but the enchantress did not look around.
She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.

The knight went from certain to vague - he sheathed his knife and wiped his lips.
“Come, drink.” the minx motioned to the stream.
As he sipped water from his cupped hands the beautiful woman
said, “Your love will bear you two strong sons if you’re home before dark.”
The knight wiped his hands on his trousers - nodded - and ran for his horse.
The enchantress smiled to herself as she finished her unearthly poem.

Earlier in the week I was pretty sick and Peter was pampering me. One night, as Peter was taking away my tea tray, I took a selfie to send to my mom - as proof of life.
He looked at it from the side, “Ooo, no,” he frowned, “too slutty.” He put his hand out for my phone, “May I help?”
“Can you hear yourself talking?” I asked. My mouth was incredibly dry from the steroid meds. The entire world seemed an unnecessary irritation.
He gently tied my robe, straightened me and my pillows and took a new version. “Better?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, a little more crossly than I meant to, “you’re always right.”
“It’s the world we live in. Get used to it,” he muttered.
When I tried to pick up my iPad and go back to work, he gently took it away, “Stop,” he whispered, “It’s 12am, you’re done for the night.”
I groaned, relieved really, then he took a small eucalyptus stick and dabbed it on my temples. “Gaa!” I said, “That’s cold!”
Who knew grown up, Californian men were so into homeopathy? After a moment though, it felt amazing.

The next morning, a cat appeared in our suite! It was a solid gray kitten with deep, brown eyes. At first, we stared at it like it was an alien (where’d that come from?) until Leong came in from the cold and said, “Cat.” Then it was welcomed.
About the time Sunny ID'd it as a British-shorthair, there was a tiny knock on our door and a little girl asked, “Have you seen..,” only to squeak “Cirrus!” when she saw her kitty. I’m telling you now, **** the rules, we would’ve kept that kitten.

bye Google. All Google’s been doing this semester is feeding me into CAPTCHA traps, Argh!
How, in 2023, can Internet searches be getting harder? One of my roommates, Anna, is helping me test alternative search engines.
Anna’s a wiry, freckled, 5’4” farm-girl from Oregon, with wavy, shoulder length, dark-brown beach-hair. In our first semester, Anna was a firecracker tossed into my life. She’d bang on my door at 2am (I didn’t even KNOW this crazy farmgirl) with her problems, klutziness and bad boyfriend stories, but she won me over with her vulpine-braininess, her impertinent straightforward secrets and laughter - all delivered in her exotic, western twang.
“Ok,” Anna suggests, getting way into my personal space to see my screen, “try - headache after ***.”
“Sure, GET me on odd shopping lists,” I snark.
“Black mole on armpit,” she countered or “intimate dryness.”
“Big help!” I laughed.

An app on my phone says they’ll be snow tonight - we can expect .2 inches in New Haven. I can’t wait because where I come from snow is an event.

In Georgia, the mere suggestion of a snowflake in a weather report results in businesses closing, the freeway being blocked-off, and the entire city being evacuated.

Reports of “snow” can provoke vicious, panic shopping for essentials, like Totino's Triple-Meat-Pizza-Rolls - known for keeping teenagers alive in weather-pocalypses.

As the snowflake is tracked-in by radar, wooden furniture is chopped up for strategic placement by the fireplace and beloved family pets are evaluated for their fur and nutritional values. Has Grandma really been pulling her weight lately?

These New Englanders seem completely nonplussed by snow, like republicans facing unnecessary death or the loss of American democracy. I think I’m going to video this.

Interesting fact: Snow actually falls from the sky. I know, it’s terrifying

I’m Imagining a place where we make sense - the hot-chocolate
safe-house where we’ll tongue wrestle, watch Gossip Girl reruns
and cuddle - sustained by love and Cinnamon Life cereal.

This dark, coffin-like clock in the corner whirrs, mechanically.
Suddenly a little yellow-clock-bird bursts, jumping-jack-like,
through a tiny door on a blue, tongue-suppressor diving board.

“Cuckoo!” it shrieks, to mock me. “Shut up!” I say defensively
but it repeats, “Cuckoo!” like an oracle - an unfeeling instrument
of adult logic.

With silly smile, playing laptop keyboard
keys, I relay tales of brief, college bliss,
where days, like dry martinis, swiftly pass
lips that pucker for life’s capricious kiss.

My roommates bring joy and warm delight, like
late night Cheeto-fights to break-up study
drudgery - some chaos can counter stress,
though it makes a powdery-orange mess.

While we whirl and preen, when on party scenes,
we've embarked on the classic scholar’s quest.
We're earnest lasses, who pass-up passes -
well, some capitulate - we are human.

But I'm tempered by shame, and remembered
love's flame - and nightly I whisper his name.

I’ve been remembering dreams lately. I don’t know why.
I dreamed I had a conversation with God, last night.

We’d finished moving into the university residential dorm - this dream was ripped, directly, from reality.

We (God and I) were on a bench in my residential courtyard, and she asked me what she’d gotten right - in creation.

My mind went blank, I mean, what do you say to THAT? But she was patient, like she had all the time in the world and finally, I came up with something.

“Porcelain tubs,” I said, watching her for a reaction, “beaches, kisses, oysters on the half-shell.” My voice goes all singy-songy when I’m nervous.

“Fashion,” I added, a moment later,  “At SOME point we’d have had to have clothes, ya?”

After a bit, she stood up and I knew she was leaving. “About that touching thing,” I started, hesitantly.

She fluttered her hand dismissively, “everyone does it.” She said as she faded away.

When I woke up, I was disappointed with myself. It seemed like such a softball interview.

There are so many mysteries she could have explained, like UFOs, bigfoot, republicans, why people say “heads-up” when they should say “duck” or if running away from my problems could, henceforth, be counted as exercise.

In my family, a convent in Lucerne, Switzerland loomed legend large.
Its name is “La Madone Noire” (the Black Madonna) and according to my mom, it is a “finishing school” where captious girls, who lied or who wouldn’t behave, were sent to live with and be schooled by nuns.

It was, from all reports, a terrible and stern place where there was never any ice cream or bedtime stories and the toys, when there were any, were made of straw.

Most of the time it was my older sister Annick getting the dark Poe-like lectures, but I was there, in my high chair, listening wide-eyed. The very idea that Annick could be snatched up, for some infraction, and sent off to the nuns horrified me to the point that my heartbeat seemed to come through my whole body.

Eventually, as we grew, “Lucerne” became a shorthand for “shape up or else,” and oddly,  it never lost its potency. Hmm, you know, come to think of it - there was no equivalent monastery for my brother.

You’re so HOT when you lie to me
young republican
I love your insurRECTION
I prefer my men dumb and dishonest
so come Lie with me
give me your BIG one
about how Trump won and
how the big steal couldn’t be stopped
ooo, slower, yes,
Tell me what a strong-man Putin is
with truth in abeyance
Yeah, uh huh, like that
Oooo.. uh..
restrict me, control me.
take my choice, my privacy
Ummm.. yeah..
right there..
impede my vote.. yes, yesss
Keep, keep, umm..
nothing’s wrong
don’t stop, oh,
don’t stop now..

Sunsets of a thousand colors,
jumping into crystal blue waters,
yeah, school's out for summer.

At first, it’s a shock - ignoring the clock,
we’re like prisoners set free
- for a two-month party
- and no responsibilities

Ditch the books ******* - you’re my tribe
- summer’s our vibe - it’s time to slip-n-slide.

Barbeque, corn on the cob, juicy peaches,
lemonade, popsicles, hot sandy beaches,
thunderstorms, short shorts, cotton candy clouds,
let's get a little too silly and a little too loud.

Coleslaw, hotdogs, sharing French fries
Charles smokin' ribs, burgers piled high,
lounging by the pool, with friends dropping by.

Sunglasses, flip-flops, midnight walks, crop tops,
sunrise mornings, throwing frisbees in the park

Playlist DJ’n, the bare feet are tappin', we’re TikTok dancin’,
and, truth or dare, I’m seeing a couple of new romances.

Ferris wheel spinnin', funnel-cake eatin’, roller coaster screamin’,
the kettle-corn’s poppin’ for rom-com streamin’ and reality-TVing.

My mom asked, “Why are you girls all sleeping in one room?”
The answer? “Cause there ain’t no cure for the summertime snooze”

Why doesn’t someone make a sunblock perfume?

Umbrellas, watermelons, 3am dips, Taco Bell trips
and roasting marshmallows on the poolside fire-pit

Beach towels spread like butterfly wings,
hey, our tans are starting to match our bikinis!

Come on, relax, have an ice-cold martini.
We’re not doin’ nothin' - we’re makin’ memories!